


Alignment

by newdisaster



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cleaning, Dialogue Heavy, Domestic, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 11:23:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1303075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newdisaster/pseuds/newdisaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started when John noticed the flat was a bit dingy and needed some sprucing, which effectively shifts his entire universe. For Sherlock, it alters only slightly into where it should have been all along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alignment

It started when John slipped in the shower.

Well, that’s when John thought it started. It really had started months before.

The noticing.

John didn’t consider himself someone who liked things absolutely pristine. It was all right if things were a little out of place. That’s what made it home. The clothes tossed over the backs of chairs, the unavoidable junk drawer, the books set on the shelf rather than lined up with the rest; it was all perfectly fine with him.

Living with Sherlock also made it difficult to become invested in keeping things just so. There was never any way to predict what wonderful fungi would make its way onto the kitchen table next. Perhaps there would be ears, sealed in a plastic baggie and stuffed next to the peas. There was no telling what disgusting object Sherlock could either procure or produce from nowhere. John began to adapt, as one did when living with another person, accepting it as an eccentricity and letting it slide. He didn’t eat at the actual table much, anyways, opting to sit in his chair and be careful where he set his feet.

The loo had been off limits. It was unspoken, but an eyebrow had been raised the one time Sherlock had suggested using the toilet for an experiment and the bathroom had never been touched nor requested to be of use since.

Therefore, it was understandable that when John slipped in the shower and leaned down to see what had caused his loss of balance, he was surprised to find that there was some sort of sticky residue coating the bottom of the tub. He frowned, wiping it off his fingers onto his bare thigh. He was cautious for the remainder of his shower.

What he didn’t expect, what he couldn’t have predicted, was that the unidentifiable mush at the bottom of the shower was going to start a chain of events that would alter his universe.

It must be noted that it only altered John’s universe. To him, it would seem like the universe. It would be irrevocably tilted on its axis, forever changed and forever irreversible.

To Sherlock, the universe was merely beginning the process of righting itself.

After he took note of the shower floor, he stepped out and eyed the countertop. There was the dust he had seen two days ago, collecting on the edges of the toothbrush holder. It hadn’t bothered him before. He pulled back the shower curtain, eyeing the liner. It could be changed. It had been up for months.

He walked out of the loo, trying not to think about how his feet felt a little sticky after having walked on the floor or how the carpet was probably buried under a layer of plaster cast off and dust. He gripped his towel around his waist and trudged up to his room, ignoring the bits of hair in the corners that darkened the steps. He pulled lazier clothes on, somewhat pretending he was unaware of why he was opting to dress so casually.

The decision, of course, had already been made. However much he buried it beneath a faux list of things he most decidedly had to do, John was well aware that he simply couldn’t stand it any longer.

Sherlock was gone for the day, having left a note saying as much. There was something he’d been working on in cooperation with Molly, something John had chosen to not enlighten himself on in regards to the details. The very second Sherlock had said the words “incubated in the stomach” in regards to a dead body, John had thrown his hands up in protest of illumination on what exactly that experiment was.

The only reason John was bringing forth in defense of not cleaning the flat was that he didn’t feel like it, and John Watson was not the type of man to let such a feeble reason ever stand in his way.

The flat was getting hosed down. John was going to dig into each cranny and crevice, clean every little knick knack in need of polishing. Every surface would seem brighter when he was done. He would even dust the books. He would have to pick up papers to clean beneath them and then attempt to set them back as they were. It would be worth it. He’d hoover the carpets, reorganize the drawers, toss out the old food, and scrub the walls.

He was considering cleaning the kitchen table to the point where he would feel comfortable eating off of a plate on the kitchen table.

By the time Sherlock got home, John had taken his niggling itch and satisfied it thoroughly. As he was bent over the lip of the tub (the bloody catalyst to the whole endeavor, in his mind), John suspected that there were only two things that were keeping him cleaning at that point.

The first was that the bathroom seemed an important place to keep immaculate and he had purposely saved it for last so he would feel guilty if he stopped at any point beforehand.

The second was that he really couldn’t stop.

It took the hairs on the back of his neck and an unexplained self-consciousness for John to realize he was no longer alone. He whipped his head around to see Sherlock standing in the doorway. The detective was watching him and he looked almost as observant as he did on a case.

“Sherlock! Didn’t hear you come in!”

“You wouldn’t have,” Sherlock said, voice low. He sounded tired, “I suspect it would be hard to hear anything past your task focus. And the singing.”

“Singing?” John turned back and continued with tackling the tub, “Oh god, was I singing?”

“Ah, I was correct, then. You didn’t know you were doing it.”

John shook his head.

“That I did not,” he let out a lighthearted groan as he leaned a bit farther forward, “rather embarrassing.”

“Not really,” Sherlock replied, his voice almost airy.

There were a few more beats of silence before John stopped and looked at him.

“Did you see the rest of the flat?”

“Yes. Get antsy while I was away?”

“The flat needed cleaning.”

“What you have done today is not what I would call cleaning.”

“What would you call it?”

“Exhuming.”

John laughed and turned to spray the faucet head with the lovely, foamy, chemically-heavy cleaner, watching it go from blue to white to indicate its readiness to be wiped down.

“I didn’t touch your room.”

“Noted.”

“Nor did I move your things.”

“You did move my things.”

“Significantly misplace?”

“That would be a more accurate description.”

“We’re redefining a lot this evening.”

“How do you mean?”

“Never mind.”

John stayed bent over for a while, pulling the shower curtain liner out of the tub and pushing it aside to get better access. He meticulously worked at the strange gunk at the bottom, occasionally turning the water on and off to drain it. He’d have to get something to lessen the clogging in the drain, now that he thought about it. Sherlock was the one with more hair, but John was positive that he had been the main contributor in its clogging, and undoubtedly not due to hair loss.

Sherlock did not move.

John turned again.

“Are you just going to watch me clean the tub?”

“Yes.”

There was only a breath of a pause, long enough for John to turn back to his work.

“Not…help or anything?”

“With what? You’ve finished with most of our living spaces.”

“You could do your bedroom.”

“One does not touch perfection.”

“Git.”

“Hardly.”

“You’re really just going to stand there watching me?”

“Yes.”

John let out a laugh, the bitterness having no weight.

“Arsenic in your coffee; I swear it one day.”

“Pardon?”

“Just thinking of ways to kill you.”

“Again.”

“Again.”

“They’re all predictable fashions, you know.”

“Oh, shut it. I’m busy and you’re distracting.”

“Am I?”

John rolled his eyes. Sometimes, just sometimes, Sherlock was good with slightly flirtatious response and tone. John was almost proud of that.

“You’re the one standing there just to get a good, long look at my arse. I wouldn’t be giving me any grief.”

“I am not simply standing here to stare at your arse, John,” Sherlock sighed, sounding bored.

Until he didn’t sound bored.

“There’s your shoulders, too.”

John stopped his movements. He didn’t freeze, simply slowed. He was having a hard time believing that he hadn’t misheard and his brain was taking a while trying to translate what Sherlock had actually said.

When he turned to give Sherlock a half-hearted glare, or perhaps even jokingly flex, there was no one in the doorway. Sherlock, in his usual dramatic style, had slipped into his room.

John didn’t think anymore of it, crediting Sherlock another point for creativity on an almost teasing comment.

He would note later that his not thinking on it only delayed his universe shift by a few months, but he would also note that sometimes, even when it was being extravagantly altered and rewritten, it still moved in mysterious ways.

 

 

John’s mistake was that, now that he had scrubbed the flat meticulously, he wanted it to stay in the condition it was in. He was rather proud when, upon their next summoning to help with a case, Lestrade slowed in the doorway and asked them if they’d cleaned.

Sherlock had rolled his eyes and pretended to complain that it only made things irritatingly brighter. John had lifted his coffee mug proudly.

But the problem was that, now that everything was clean, John noticed when it wasn’t anymore.  Slowly, cleaning became a daily habit.

Sherlock was, naturally, annoyed by this.

“Are you…sweeping?”

“Yes.”

“Is that necessary?”

“I think so.”

“It’s not.”

“It’s good for you.”

“In what way?”

John shrugged.

“The soul. Your body’s alignment.”

“You look terribly ridiculous.”

“Not as if you’d ever do it.”

“I don’t see the point.”

“Of course you don’t.”

“It’ll just get dirty again.”

“At which point, I’ll do this again.”

“You look like a maid.”

John had snorted.

“I am a damn maid.”

“I never once have requested you clean.”

“No, you just leave dirty dishes in the sink, after you’ve snuck food, and expect me to do them.”

“You do the dishes? I had always assumed they just magically got done.”

“Pay attention sometime, Sherlock. One would think you weren’t a detective with those terrible observation skills.”

Sherlock had glared. John had smirked. Sherlock made a note to dirty the dishes as soon as possible and pay attention next time.

And so daily chores began to happen. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t done some of it before, but it became an actual pattern. He picked days to do certain cleaning things, like laundry and sweeping, and other days to do a bit more, like dusting and mopping.

He wondered how on earth the flat hadn’t descended into something far more disgusting until it dawned on him.

He invited Mrs. Hudson up to tea the very same day.

“So,” he started, “not your housekeeper?”

She had given him a coy smile.

“Well, there was a week I wasn’t able to make it up here. You know, when I had a terrible time with the flu, but it seems you’ve taken my job from me.”

And John had smiled, crediting himself with finally noticing that Mrs. Hudson had kept the flat clean before him.

Sherlock, of course, had already known.

“Really, John? You never noticed? We’d be out for a case and come back and you never once saw that the dust on your laptop was gone?”

“Says the man who didn’t know that I do dishes.”

“Oh, the water comes on and I tune it out.”

“Sure you do.”

The patterns continued, Mrs. Hudson seemed to complain less about her hip, things were shinier, and even Sherlock seemed a bit pleased to note that he could see out the window. He then proceeded to deduce every passerby and John could not cease grinning.

And then John got a date. Which became two dates. Which became three. And eventually became many dates to the point that only Sherlock was keeping track anymore. Months passed of John leaving for dinner and returning late.

Some nights, he didn’t return at all. Some nights, Sherlock stayed up screeching on his violin until Mrs. Hudson came up to shush him. Some nights, Sherlock just played a slow song that no one really minded hearing, no matter how sad it made them feel.

John would come home the next morning looking stupid. Well, to Sherlock he looked stupid. John felt like he could punch his hand through concrete.

Instead, he went about cleaning the flat. Sherlock stood in the doorway, watching and resenting and resenting and watching.

“Is this really necessary?”

“I’m having company, Sherlock. Yes. Cleaning the loo is usually important.”

“Usually.”

“Always,” John corrected, “it’s a thing you do when people come over.”

“You don’t meticulously clean the toilet when Lestrade comes over.”

“Lestrade isn’t Kathy.”

“Kathy.”

“Yes, Sherlock.”

“Did you steal the sapphire diadem out of the locked safe?”

“Did I what?”

“Did you steal the tiara of Ms. Hunter?”

“No? Why would I do that?”

“Oh, to give me an interesting puzzle to go and solve while you invite your girlfriend over for tea and a shag.”

John giggled. Sherlock had actually used the word shag.

“I am afraid you’re not looking at your culprit.”

“A shame. I’m going to have to find it soon. The owner nearly choked her fluffy cat in distress.”

John laughed again and then went to his knees to do the rest.

“Those chemicals can’t be healthy for you to inhale.”

“The door is open, though my flatmate, who for some reason likes watching me clean, is standing in the way.”

“You missed a bit. Just there.”

“Thanks,” John rolled his eyes and reached around to try and get to the floor behind the toilet.

“You’re going to soil your favorite jumper.”

“It’ll be fine.”

“Oh, poor Kathy will have to see you without it and, goodness, what a sight to miss. It does make you ever so lumpy in all the wrong places.”

John sat back on his heels and glared before pulling the jumper over his head, tossing it at Sherlock. The white tee shirt he had underneath took its sweet time in settling back down John’s torso before he leaned over again.

“See? Isn’t it easier now?”

“Shut up.”

“You know you look better without it.”

“It’s comfortable.”

“Comfortable, but not attractive. In fact, she would probably find you more attractive in what you’re wearing now.”

“How would you know if she’d find me more attractive like this?”

“Because I do.”

“Do what? Know she would?”

“Find you more attractive this way.”

John sat up and glared again.

“Very funny.”

“Why do you think I made you take it off?”

“I thought it was for practicality not aesthetics,” John groaned, leaning down to finish off the back.

“A win-win situation for both of us. You don’t soil your favorite jumper and I get to watch you cleaning in just a fine fitting shirt.”

“All right, Sherlock. You’re doing good with the humor, but the joking sounds real now.”

“John, when did I ever say I was joking?”

He sat up again, meaning to explain to Sherlock that he was crossing a line and there was a point when mates had to stop the act. That they couldn’t tease to that line or else it didn’t sound like teasing. But Sherlock was already gone. John even heard the door to the flat close.

When he was finished with the loo, he stood up and washed his hands. He heard his phone ping, and he cracked his neck as he wandered into the kitchen, checking the message.

_I took the awful thing you call a jumper with me. You’ll thank me later. SH_

John wasn’t sure about that, but his clothes didn’t stay on long enough for him to wonder too much.

 

“I think she’s ready.”

A normal Sunday, gone.

“Ready?”

“To meet you.”

“Oh, must I, John?”

“Yes, Sherlock.”

“What makes this one any different? You know what happens when you bring them back to the flat.”

“This one, Sherlock…what _does_ make this one different?”

Sherlock frowned.

“How should I know?”

“But you do know. You know this one’s different.”

“I just asked _you_ not ten seconds ago what makes this one different and you’re now telling me that I am already aware of it.”

“You must know or else you would have done…that thing you do.”

“What do I do?”

“Interrupt dates, demand my attention for something inane, on one memorable occasion, you burst into a girl’s flat and dragged me away for a case—”

“A murderer that posed his victims as religious figures!”

“—or when you pretended that I was your dying granddad’s doctor and came up to us at the restaurant.”

Sherlock bit his lip.

“That one was necessary.”

“You used a line from Star Wars!”

Sherlock smiled and flung himself dramatically over the sofa, imitating the pose of a damsel in distress.

“Help me, Dr. Watson. You’re my only hope!”

Neither Sherlock nor John missed the faint rush of blood that made its way to the cheeks of the Dr. Watson in question.

“Point is,” John pressed on, “you haven’t done any of those things. In fact, she doesn’t know why I’ve been preparing her to meet you, warning her.”

“And why must you do this?”

“What?”

“Why does she have to meet me? You two have been getting along so perfectly splendidly. Why risk that by dragging her to our flat to meet your terrifying flatmate?”

“Because…”

“Yes?”

“Because I want you to meet her.”

“Why? Do you want me to find out something about her? Find out if she’s hiding something? Discover if she’ll run screaming when you suggest a new, rather erotic location for her sculptor’s fingers to go?”

“Oi!” John went absolutely crimson at that. That had to be the most sexual observation of his person that Sherlock had ever made. He didn’t expect to be as embarrassed as he definitely was. Sherlock quickly deduced that if he were to keep talking on that subject, he would make John more uncomfortable.

In one of his fleeting moments of human sympathy, he said no more on it. But he might later.

“Why is it so important that I meet her? You know I have no interest in any of your dates.”

“It’s not about what you think of her.”

“Then what is it? What she thinks of me?”

“Yes!”

“How come her opinion matters more than mine?”

“You just said that you have no interest—”

“How come—”

“Because you’re not going anywhere.”

There was a beat of silence and John couldn’t bring himself to meet Sherlock’s eyes. Those damn eyes that saw too much. The eyes that saw John’s secret sexual likes in the way he walked and saw a murderer’s mistake with a glance. The eyes that probably knew about the dust in the corner of the toothpaste holder and didn’t do anything about it because the body attached to the eyes was a lazy wanker.

“You are my best friend and my flatmate and she has to like…well, at least tolerate you before I’m going to worry about you tolerating her. Because if she can’t handle you, then there’s no point to it.”

“Because I’m not going anywhere?”

“Yes.”

“I…could go to Bart’s—”

“You know I don’t mean an actual location, Sherlock. Please don’t do that. Just…know it.”

“All right.”

John finally got the courage to look up. Sherlock nodded once at him.

“Okay. Then I suppose I’ll…bite my tongue—”

“No, don’t do that either.”

“Do what?”

“Not be…you. She knows what you do, so that’s okay. Really. She’s prepared to be torn in to. Don’t bite your tongue, unless you absolutely know what you’re going to say is rude. But you do that for me, most of the time, so you know what I mean.”

“Like don’t tell her if I think her jumper is awful?”

John fought a smile. He battled the smile in a pay-per-view cage match but the smile knocked him out in round two. Sherlock returned the smile with a matching one of his own.

“Git.”

And so there had been a ring of the bell and Sherlock and John (both wearing their best shirts) had met each other’s gaze. Sherlock jerked his head and John walked to answer the door, bringing back with him a lovely girl. Sherlock stood, nearly trying to button a suit jacket that wasn’t there, and met them half way.

“Sherlock, this is Kathy. Kathy, this is Sherlock.”

He offered his hand and noted only the slightest hesitance as she shook it.

“John has told me so much about you,” she said, and Sherlock resisted an eye roll. He couldn’t return the sentiment, as John had told him nothing.

“I’m sure he has,” he smiled and shook her hand.

He said nothing.

Kathy bit her lip and shook her head.

“No, no, no, come on now.”

“What?”

“Kathy,” John said quietly, but she talked over him.

“I know what you do. From the papers and the blog and all that. You just read my whole life on me. John didn’t tell you a thing about me because he doesn’t have to. So go on. I was expecting to be laid out by tea.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“It’s…not a party trick.”

“Oh don’t act like you don’t love showing off. And besides, wouldn’t it be better to get it out of the way? I’m not horribly interesting anyways.”

“Why don’t we at least wait until after dinner?” John suggested, “Don’t want to risk you missing such fine cuisine if you opt to bolt.”

And they did just that. It was mostly John and Kathy talking, but it wasn’t as awkward as any of them had expected.  Sherlock only spoke to allow insight, revealing the rather disgusting motivations behind an offer of Kathy’s preferred bus driver and informing her that her coworker was stealing from the till.

John felt happier than he had in a long time. Sherlock was being amazing, Kathy seemed to be enjoying herself. They made it until dinner, at which point she invited him to fillet her. And fillet her, he did. And when it was over, John waited with bated breath to see how she would react. He hadn’t known about her being mugged and beaten and left for dead, as such a topic isn’t good for pillow talk. But Sherlock had said it was a moment that changed her entire life, and John wasn’t sure if that was something she had wanted aired out. But Kathy had given him a smile.

“So seeing as you know that, after my mugging incident, I took a few classes, you should know I keep a taser in purse.”

“I am aware.”

“And you should keep that in mind in case you ever interrupt one of our dates or burst in on us in my home.”

“I have done nothing of the sort,” Sherlock pointed out.

“So far.”

“Then I must ask you to not think so little of me, as I have done nothing as of yet to give you any reason to dislike me.”

And Kathy had leaned across the table, tilted her head to the side, and smiled.

“Likewise.”

And Sherlock had smiled and John had relaxed and wondered if he’d gotten it right.

 

 

 

John came home from the clinic and sighed. He didn’t feel like doing his self-assigned chores. He was tired, as was his usual mood after a day dealing with thirteen different kinds of the flu and shots and crying children and know-it-all patients. But the dishes hadn’t been done and there were too many of them to ignore.

When the water turned on, John’s previously nowhere to be seen flatmate appeared. He didn’t just appear, he was suddenly right behind John.

“Christ, Sherlock, don’t sneak up on me.”

“You can’t hear me moving over the sound of the water.”

“Yes, hence the ability to sneak up on me.”

Sherlock stepped back out of John’s line of vision. John didn’t question it, continuing to fuss with one of the plates with a particularly hard bit of food on the corner.

“You’re wearing a long-sleeved shirt again.”

“Yes.”

“Why do persist in doing that while you clean?”

“I’ve rolled my sleeves up.”

“They could fall down.”

“Trying to get me out my shirt again?”

“Yes.”

John stopped, dropping a plate into the sink and making suds splash over the side and onto the counter.

“Sherlock, I meant to tell you this last time, but you have to know that there is a point where the jokes go too far. At that point, it’s not funny anymore. In this case, it makes it go from funny to concerning.”

“Concerning?”

“Yes.”

“My finding you attractive is concerning?”

“Well…you don’t actually find me attractive, so it makes it not funny anymore.”

“Who said I didn’t?”

John did not fail to notice that there was no hint of teasing humor in Sherlock’s voice. He did fail to respond to it with equal gravity.

“See, that’s taking it too far.”

“I’m only taking it too far if I’m joking and I’m not.”

John blinked at him.

“You’re not?”

“No. I have never said I was, you’ll note.”

“I suppose you haven’t,” John looked away and turned back to the dishes.

“Is it problematic?”

“What?”

“My finding you attractive?”

“Well, yeah, I have a girlfriend, you know.”

“That doesn’t come into play in the slightest.”

John felt a dash of rage on top of the heat on the water.

“I think it does.”

“No, it doesn’t. Because unlike you obviously seem to think, my finding you attractive does not equal me wanting to steal you away from your girlfriend. I find you attractive means I find you aesthetically pleasing.”

“You’ve…how long have you found me attractive?”

“Since I met you.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Why…why didn’t you say anything?”

“Oh, do grow up, John,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I find you attractive. I didn’t have any intention of acting on the attraction like an animal and I have no intention of doing so now.”

John snorted.

“I guess I should have expected that.”

“Of course. Why would I chose the plebian response to attraction?”

“So you…find me attractive?”

“Yes.”

John rinsed off a spoon, carefully avoiding turning it the wrong way.

“And you’ve chosen to admit it.”

“Why not?”

“You say that,” John placed a knife under the tap then, “but you’ve avoided telling me for…several years. Only now, you’re telling me.”

“Yes.”

“Complimenting me.”

“Yes.”

“With increasing frequency and bluntness.”

“Get to your point.”

“Why?”

“Why am I complimenting you?”

“That’s what I’m asking.”

Sherlock shrugged. John couldn’t see it, but he heard the rustle of fabric and felt the tangible nonchalance.

“I suppose to…boost your morale.”

“Boost my morale?”

“You’re repeating me.”

“It just doesn’t make any sense, I suppose. Don’t understand why I need morale boosting, especially now. I’ve a girlfriend who does that.”

“But I do not.”

“Have a girlfriend?”

“I do not compliment you.”

“Not until recently.”

“Yes.”

“So…why?”

Sherlock moved to lean against the counter next to the sink, looking at John’s face and, when John obediently looked up to meet his gaze, his eyes.

“You compliment me a lot.”

“I suppose I do.”

“With alarming frequency.”

“Get to your point.”

“Well, I suppose I’m…” Sherlock waved his hand flippantly. John cracked a smile.

“You’re…returning the favor.”

“If you like.”

“I don’t compliment your looks!”

“It’s not as if I can compliment your massive intellect.”

John lifted his hand and splashed at Sherlock, in the way one did.

“Oi!”

Sherlock laughed and lifted up a handful of suds and smashed them against John’s cheek, in the way one did.

John flinched back, giggled, and cupped his hands and doused Sherlock with warm water.

One did not usually do that.

Sherlock returned the favor.

There was laughter in 221B, something that felt rare, even with the peace they had both come to. Perhaps it was because it was carefree. And they kept at it, soaking everything and each other.

And then soap got in Sherlock’s eyes.

“Ow! Ow, ow!” he said, feeling undignified as his hands automatically came up to cover the sting.

“Bend over, under the tap,” John instructed and Sherlock flailed a bit before John gripped him by the neck and ducked his head down just enough so Sherlock could guide his face to the water.

However, John gripping him by the neck, forcing him to bend his body in such an angle, as well as recalling the strong grip, had given Sherlock something of a problem.

Of course, John was unaware of this and remained unaware as he did not witness Sherlock move. Instead, he rubbed his friend’s back.

“Are you all right?” the kind and considerate flatmate asked.

“Oh yes, just soap,” the terrible, lying flatmate answered.

Or at least that was how Sherlock saw it.

John chuckled and it wasn’t as horrible as Sherlock thought it was.

“I’m going to go change,” he said and padded off to his room. He didn’t come back down. Sherlock didn’t take it personally, seeing as he knew John would have nodded off. It did certainly make it easier when he had to take care of himself before retiring into his sleepwear as well.

Sherlock did not follow John in sleeping, but his body went nearly as still as he sat up all night, trying in vain for the thousandth time to delete feelings.

John had dreams filled with yellow and green and warmth and he woke up as happy as he’d drifted off.

His universe smiled.

 

 

 

Sherlock wasn’t paying attention again. So when John came home, Sherlock didn’t pick up any of the signs that would tell him that there was something terribly wrong.

He only came to when he heard a curse come from the loo. Seeing as he was a detective, he decided to investigate.

His investigation led to him opening the door just in time to see John, already displaying a bare torso, pulling down his trousers and tossing them onto the toilet seat lid.

John was also standing in the shower with the curtain pulled back and the water off, but Sherlock only noticed this after his initial assessment.

“John, what on earth are you doing?”

“What’s it look like I’m doing? Cleaning the shower.”

“And you’ve decided it was efficient to do so in your pants?”

“It’s not a bad idea, actually. Some people do it nude. While showering.”

There would be time for Sherlock to imagine that later. At the moment, he was still observing and his observations had led him to a new, important conclusion.

“Something has gone wrong.”

“Yeah. She cheated on me.”

Sherlock felt anger and not for himself. It was rare enough that he noted the completely unselfish emotion.

“Some bloke. Younger, of course.”

“Idiot.”

“Yeah, I am.”

“Not you, her.”

“Not her, me,” John insisted, “I knew it was too good to be true. How it goes, doesn’t it? Nothing is so perfect.”

“Was it perfect?”

John paused in scrubbing the shower head.

“It was…better than I’ve had in a while. She was better,” he shook his head and sighed, “or so it seemed.”

“What made her different than the others?”

John stopped again and gave Sherlock a deadpan stare.

“She liked you.”

“Do they have to like me?”

“Obviously.”

“Why?”

“I think we had this conversation already.”

“Did we?”

“Don’t play stupid. You remember what I said.”

Sherlock took a breath, watching John stretch and reach the top of the wall.

“They have to like me because, in your words, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Exactly.”

“And that’s…what made her different?”

“Well…” John hesitated, “it wasn’t just that. I mean, she was smart. And witty. And beautiful, of course.”

“You have used all these adjectives to describe past relationships.”

“Yeah well,” John groaned, “she was still different.”

Sherlock said nothing. John continued cleaning.

“Enjoying the view?” John asked after a long pause of silence.

“Pardon?”

“You’re staring at me and I’m in my pants.”

Sherlock chuckled.

“I had somewhat…zoned out, if you will. I wasn’t actually looking at you.”

“Well, no surprises there. Not terribly interesting to watch.”

Sherlock moved his head up and down, as if accessing the view before him, as if he hadn’t already committed John’s form to memory.

“I would have to disagree.”

John just let out a bitter laugh.

“At least it’s good enough for someone.”

“John.”

He stopped scrubbing the shower head and looked at his flatmate.

“You are more than good enough for anyone with a hint of acceptable character. She is an absolute fool.”

They stared at each other, almost a silent, metaphysical hug passed between them. John nodded.

“Thanks,” he said and went back to cleaning.

Sherlock watched him. John didn’t say anything, just letting him look. When he was finished, they shared a smile and went to bed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Are you asexual?”

There was breakfast on the table. John had to be to work in ten minutes. He had his tea in a travel mug. He’d purposely asked at the last minute.

“No,” Sherlock answered, not looking up from the paper.

“I’ve never known you to interact with anyone, so—”

“Your conclusion is not illogical,” Sherlock cut him off, “you went off the evidence. With the exception of my attraction to you, you’ve not known me to be attracted to anyone, let alone sleep with them.”

“Right, which brings me to my next question.”

Sherlock remained focused on the same sentence.

“You do…have a sex drive?”

“As much as anyone, even if I don’t indulge as regularly as most.”

“Right. So you…get off?”

“Yes.”

“On…”

Sherlock finally tore his eyes from the newspaper to furrow his eyebrows.

“Do I ask you what porn you watch?”

John snorted.

“No, you just know.”

Sherlock shrugged.

“It doesn’t help that you don’t delete your internet history.”

“You snoop.”

“Only when I have to get rid of the virus you’ve naively picked up along the way.”

John licked his lips and tried again.

“You find me attractive.”

“Yes.”

“And you get off.”

“Yes.”

“Do you…get off on…watching me?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and then turned back to his paper.

“How much courage and heterosexual coverage did that question take?”

“Just answer it, would you?” John sighed. Sherlock said nothing for a moment, just flipped the page of the newspaper.

“What do you think you slipped on in the shower that morning?”

“It was—”

“The result of you taking down the sapphire thief.”

John blinked a few times. Sherlock did not move with the exception of tilting his head to read the other side of the paper. For his part, John stood frozen for a moment as comprehension reached him completely. He turned on his heel and walked out the door. He didn’t see Sherlock and run his fingers through his hair in panic, questioning why his mouth ran the way it did. He did not see him scream and smash his mug into the wall, but he did smell the tea on the sofa weeks later.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock could have set fire to his favorite dressing gown. John was back and he was cleaning.

All of this had started with cleaning and Sherlock, aware of the slow shift of the universe, became impatient. It was so close to lining up, to finally settling where it needed to be. He could feel it in the air. It was nearly tangible to him, a hint of a taste on his tongue. It tasted like vanilla and fire.

John was so close, even if he still thought he had a long way to go or even if he wasn’t aware he was going anywhere at all.

But the cleaning.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, walking in on John in his bedroom.

“Er, I’m dusting.”

“Why?”

“Been over this. It’s good for you.”

“Yes, your bloody alignment.”

“Can I help you?”

“Nothing? I get nothing?”

“What?” John’s brow furrowed and Sherlock nearly smacked him.

“I tell you in no uncertain terms that I have masturbated to the thought of you and you come home and…what? Make tea? Dust your damned bedroom?”

“Yes,” John said slowly, “that’s what I was planning on doing when I got home.”

“You…don’t even care?”

“Care?”

“I practically threw myself at you!”

John paused in his actions (bloody finally) and looked at Sherlock, seeming pensive.

“That was a…proposition?”

“You think?”

“It could just be sexual attraction. How was I supposed to know?”

“Because you’re not an idiot, you moron!”

John raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve clearly never seen anyone throw themselves at anyone else.”

“John, that’s not…” Sherlock trailed off and actually looked and the floor and actually shifted his weight and actually played with his lip because Sherlock was actually nervous and it was astounding.

“I thought about what you said,” John admitted, “at work. Which caused a few problems.”

“Problems?”

“Well, I was…distracted, out of focus. I kept zoning in and out. See, it was just hard for me to believe for a second that…Sherlock Holmes was not only…not only finds me attractive, but is attracted _to_ me. And then there’s the fact that I was almost nearly convinced you didn’t do sex. And then there was the memorable moment when that little…vision of how that particular…of the shower…” John seemed to lose focus again and cleared his throat, “and that was enlightening.”

Sherlock let the word hang in the air like a sweet on the end of a string, suspended from the ceiling.

“Enlightening?”

“Well, yeah, I got a hard on at work, so that was fun to try and hide.”

Sherlock did not let himself smirk, did not let himself calculate Lestrade’s winnings at the Scotland Yard betting pool, did not let himself celebrate.

“This isn’t just about sex,” Sherlock said, rather bluntly, “or attraction. I didn’t share that with you because I want to engage in a strictly sexual based—I don’t want that.”

John was infuriatingly silent, forcing Sherlock to speak.

“I was hoping for something more.”

Silence, damn him.

“I want a relationship.”

If John didn’t speak, Sherlock would strangle him.

“With you. One I fear would be…rather permanent once the details were arranged.”

John licked his lips.

“Yeah, I know.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, and I think…I already told you how I feel about it.”

Sherlock tilted his head.

“Did you?”

John nodded and then looked up, forcing himself to meet Sherlock’s eyes.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

There was an audible click, though neither of the men were in any state to hear it, and the universe of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson aligned and became moving in tandem.

It wasn’t going to be easy and it wasn’t going to be smooth and they knew that. Falling into bed wouldn’t happen for some time. It would start with working their way to bed, carefully discussing what was to happen once they got to the bed and who would be where on the bed. There was, of course, dealing with the media and the boasting and the invasive questions. But at the moment, neither of them really gave a damn. Because, ultimately, it was a basic truth that so little was going to change that it was hardly going to be noticed.

“Right,” John nodded, “I’m going to finish up here.”

Sherlock let out a groan and invaded his space.

“I’ve waited years. Your dusting can wait a few minutes.”

There would be discussion on the ‘years’ Sherlock was referring to later as well. For now, John smiled and put his hand on Sherlock’s cheek, leaned up, and kissed him. It was very soft, very gentle, and not too terribly short. He pulled back with the same smile he had been wearing before.

“There,” he grinned. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“You’re really going to finish cleaning, aren’t you?”

“Just because my entire universe just got upended doesn’t mean I’m going to stop being healthy. There’s still the loo to get touched up. And the shower to clean.”

Sherlock let out a groan and walked back down the stairs, going to make them dinner. He could do that. He paused on the stairs  and turned back, popping his head in the door.

“Will you do the shower naked this time?”

John paused and turned with a cheeky grin.

“Only if you do me at the same time.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and John flushed.

“Clean! I meant like…showering…together, bloody Christ.”

A slow smile spread across Sherlock’s face.

“I think I can manage just that tiny bit of housework,” he said.

Neither man had ever been happier, but they had happier days to come.

Sherlock turned and then nearly tripped down the stairs in his excitement.

John didn’t notice.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic took ages to write, for some reason, coming out in random bursts of dialogue, but I wanted to write something that felt natural between the two of them and from the somewhat perspective of us, the readers, who know that Sherlock and John belong together. It became this.
> 
> It actually started because my friend was watching me clean the bathroom and the entire first scene popped into my head.
> 
> And I might have been imagining watching John clean and the play of his shoulders under a white t-shirt.
> 
> All of these are possible.
> 
> Let me know what you think!


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